Kama Sutra for the Married Man
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale thinks that he should take his and Crowley's relationship to another level. From the book his angel is reading, Crowley isn't sure exactly what level that is. Neither does Aziraphale. Aziraphale x Crowley


"Whotcha got there, angel?"

"Crowley! Oh!" Aziraphale twists in his seat, jumping nearly six feet straight in the air when his husband walks through the door. "I didn't hear you come in!"

"Obviously. Is that a new book?" Crowley grabs it out of Aziraphale's hands before the angel can think to hide it. "Must be good. You look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar."

"_What_!? What are you talking about? That? Th-that's nothing! It's just a boring old book. Just got it in. Taking a browse before I put it on the shelf." He tries to swipe it back, but his husband is too quick, perching on the back of the sofa across the way and opening it, picking up where Aziraphale left off.

"Whoa!" Crowley barks a laugh at the first picture he sees. "Well that was a little white lie, wasn't it, angel?" He leans in close, squinting at the diagrams crowding the page, then flips to the cover to check the title for more context. "_Kama Sutra for the Married Man_?" He chuckles once, high pitched and giddy, and on Aziraphale's small cushion, the world skids on its axis and stops cold. "Now where do you expect this fits in with all the children's books Adam stocked in this place?"

"Well, I …"

"Wait, wait, wait! Don't tell me!" Crowley interrupts, choking on his own joke. "Between _The Hardy Boys_ and _Nancy Drew_, right?"

Aziraphale pinches his knees together, praying that, at some point, he'll dissolve into the ground beneath his feet. "A-actually …"

"Seriously, though - why in the world are you reading this?"

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale stares at the floor, hoping to spontaneously discorporate.

He sighs, shifts in his seat and rolls his eyes. _It's just a book_, he tells himself. _A book full of explicit and vulgar pictures. _Crowley is his _husband_. It shouldn't be hard to talk about this. He clears his throat, attempting to shoo a metric ton of discomfort and embarrassment from his brain.

"Because we're married now, Crowley. Married people ..." Aziraphale continues, but using only vague hand gestures to express his meaning. The half-smirk growing on Crowley's face as he watches him suffer through this explanation spears him to the bone. "Isn't that something you want to … do?"

"I've never asked for this, have I?" Crowley spins the book 180 degrees, trying to make sense of the next picture on the page.

"No, but I thought it was because you were being …"

Crowley's head snaps up, his slotted, reptilian eyes fixed on his husband's face. "Don't say it!"

"… nice."

Crowley groans, flailing dramatically, nearly falling head over heels backwards. "I told you not to say it!"

"_Or you don't want me_," Aziraphale murmurs under his breath. It's soft, downright imperceptible, but Crowley hears, and it makes him take notice. He takes a good long look at his husband for the first time tonight. Aziraphale has already showered, his hair combed down neatly and he's dressed for bed, but in his best dressing gown. A sublte sniff tells Crowley he's splashed on his best cologne.

Those clues and this book?

Crowley slowly begins to understand.

Whatever this is about (and Crowley has a good idea …) it's not spontaneous. He's been _planning_ this.

But they haven't spoken about it. Aziraphale came up with this on his own, based off an assumption.

And now he's making another one.

Crowley shakes his head, amused grin on his face trying its hardest to be sympathetic, but he can't help himself. Aziraphale is the most clever being he's ever known. Why is it then he can also be so incredibly dense?

"Does anything you've seen in this book make you comfortable, angel?"

Aziraphale recalls the few diagrams he'd seen before Crowley snatched the book away. They make him shudder, and not in a good way. He knows about physical affection, intimacy, and sex, but the stuff in that book looked medieval … and that coming from someone who lived during the Spanish Inquisition. Frankly, the thought of it all – the sweet and the severe - makes Aziraphale anxious, sweating like a condemned man minutes from a beheading (yet another situation he has first-hand knowledge of) and angels don't even sweat! But Crowley's a demon. They're more like humans in that regard, Aziraphale finds. Demon needs are different than that of angels, right?

Aziraphale doesn't know for certain. He couldn't find the time – or the courage – to ask.

He pulls himself up straight and squares his shoulders, hands gripping his knees till his knuckles turn white, but he can't look his husband in the eyes. "No, but …" He swallows hard enough to make his throat and chest ache "… I'd be willing to do it … for you? If that's what you wanted?"

Crowley nods at the response of his adorable but oblivious husband. "A-ha. Well, let me have a look-see, alright?" He flips through the pages of the book, not really focusing on the pictures, more stalling to give himself time to think. They've only talked about sex once that he can remember. It wasn't even in the context of their relationship (since, at the time, they hadn't owned up to having one) but Aziraphale turned into a stuttering mess. Crowley would be willing to revisit that discussion if Aziraphale wishes. But there's a tremendous difference between making love and the carnal gymnastics outlined in this book. Why Aziraphale thought _this_ was the direction Crowley would want to go is beyond him. "There's a pretty picture, if I do say so!" he growls, delighting in the shade of ruby red his angel becomes. "Though I think there's about four people wrapped up in that ball of coital agony. I'm having a little trouble pinpointing all the limbs … And this one? No. I'd have to be in serpent form to pull _that_ one off. And this …" He throws his head back and honestly laughs out loud "… well, we could get _into_ this one, but we'd have to miracle our way out, and I can just imagine the angry letters you'd get over _that_!" Crowley flips through more pages, muttering commentary for the sake of torturing his husband, who's become as petrified as an ancient tree stump. In the dead middle of the book, Crowley finally comes up with a plan. He bites his lower lip, suppressing a smile. "Ah, I think this one's more our speed." He climbs down from the back of the couch to settle on the cushions where he can look his angel in the eye. "Number 117."

"A-and, pray tell, wh-what is that?" Aziraphale asks, trying to peek over the top of the book to see. But like any good poker player, Crowley keeps it close to his chest, out of his angel's view.

"It's where I carry you to bed," Crowley says smoothly, "tuck you under the covers, and bring you a tray of tea and biscuits. We read a book, you fall asleep in my arms, and we call it a day."

Aziraphale's eyebrows snap together so quickly, Crowley swears they make a sound. "Is that really in there?"

Crowley closes the book, index finger wedged between the pages to save the spot, challenging is angel to call his bluff. "If you're determined to go through with this, we'll do what's underneath my finger. Do you honestly want to check and risk proving me wrong?"

Aziraphale's eyes fall on the book and stay there. No, he doesn't. He doesn't want to prove Crowley wrong. He knows Crowley is lying. Demons lie – that's what they do. Even the better ones. But not all lies are necessarily bad. Some lies spare people from hurt feelings, keep them from doing things they're not prepared to do. But now, he feels more than a bit foolish. He hadn't exactly been gung ho about the plan he'd come up with for tonight, but this is a bit of a letdown.

But that has to do with his own self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy.

In the six thousand years they've known one another, Crowley has never done a single thing, said a single word to make Aziraphale feel inadequate. There've been the odd jokes, of course, the way friends will, but none of them ever hit at the heart of Aziraphale. He pictured that same energy carrying them through this small change in their relationship.

But as it turned out, that change wasn't so small. Transitioning from friends to husbands flipped a handful of otherwise dormant switches in Aziraphale's mind, made him start to question whether or not who he was was enough.

Crowley is just so _much_, and Aziraphale?

He's so _soft_.

Crowley obviously fell in love with the angel he is, and has never asked him to change, but Aziraphale began to think that his demon needed something more.

At the time, he felt his logic was sound.

He should have realized that love is all that matters, and his husband loves him enough to give him an out.

Shouldn't he take it?

"Number 117 it is!" he says, patting his poor strangled knees. "I'll start the kettle!"

"And I'll get the biscuits." Crowley tosses the book aside, miracling it with a snap of his fingers into a signed first edition of _The Adventures of Beekle – The Unimaginary Friend_, which he feels better fits both his angel and his shop.

Both men stand, meeting in the middle on their way to the kitchen. Aziraphale stops Crowley with a hand to his bicep, looks into his husband's eyes, and smiles. "Thank you, Crowley."

He starts on his way but Crowley winds an arm around his waist and holds him still against him.

"Make no mistake, angel," he whispers, lips dancing kissing-distance from his ear. "I want you, but my reasons have nothing to do with sex. Nothing at all. If it's not important to you, it's not important to me. Understand?"

Aziraphale blushes for the nineteenth time during this conversation, but in a softer, less scandalized shade of pink. With the touch of Crowley's arm doing weird things to his head, Aziraphale utters the only two words that pop to mind.

Incidentally, they're the only two words he could come up with at their wedding, when Crowley's fond eyes on Aziraphale's face affected him this same exact way.

"I do."


End file.
